Archive of Our Own

i. Charles's Law

Volume of gas is directly proportional to its absolute temperature under constant pressure.

It's not a hard concept to grasp, what was in between them.

Wonwoo thought they had a good thing going, something right from the moment he chased Soonyoung down the corridor of their old college dorm and told him that hey, it's okay, I love you, I love you too. There was something about the way Soonyoung sneaked out of his own bed in the wee hours of morning to join Wonwoo when he had just finished his third deadline of the week, something about them kissing blind, mouths melded together over and over again. Wonwoo had memorized the curves and dips of Soonyoung's lips, remembered how his tongue felt different between five in the morning and two in the afternoon.

It sounds heavy, but it wasn't. Between Wonwoo and Soonyoung, it was simple and clean past the initial confessions. Soonyoung was safe in the knowledge that no, he didn't destroy their friendship, his feelings were fine, he wasn't the villain of his own story about to jeopardize one of the best things to have happened in his life. Wonwoo slept fine every night knowing that he wasn't someone underneath, his loyalty running deeper than the shallow vein of subservience. They were okay, they were good together. Wonwoo felt it in how the space inside his head got filled instantly by thoughts of Soonyoung, full and overwhelming, but not unwelcome. His shoulders were ten times lighter whenever Soonyoung slung his arm over them.

Over the course of four years, Wonwoo had moved in with Soonyoung (effective immediately after their second year in the dorms), stressed himself sick finding a job with his measly literature degree, drank so much when the local magazine called him up about his application for co-editor that he vomited on Soonyoung's shirt twice that night and nearly defenestrated himself—he had been living. There was no such thing as no worries per se, but they were all menial and insignificant compared to the presence of Soonyoung beside him each night. Wonwoo had no room in him for worries, all taken up by Soonyoung.

But that was where it got dangerous; the constant state of pure bliss and happiness he was engulfed in. It was such an ideal state of being that Wonwoo didn't realize the shift, the crack that formed somehow between them, sometime from senior year to post-graduation, Wonwoo guesses, stretching on to form a yawning canyon that was as dark underneath as the hollow within Wonwoo's being whenever he bit his nails down to its pink beds over manuscripts while Soonyoung comes back home with sore calves and a sweaty back.

They were kids together, grew up together. They scraped their elbows and bruised shins together. They were on equal footing and Wonwoo didn't notice when the ground beneath them shifted until the month he couldn't get together enough money for his part of rent without working that extra job he gave up to get serious with his writing.

Soonyoung paid it off, no problem, none of the money held against Wonwoo as debt. But underneath the whole transaction, beyond that of finance and lack of in Wonwoo's bank account, was the threat of pressure change.

Wonwoo spent most nights in dreamless sleep. But sometimes, he would lay awake wondering if he was so shallow to compare them both to each other, if he was good enough for Soonyoung to stay with.

What's worse was that Wonwoo didn't want to be good enough for Soonyoung. He just wanted to be good enough for Soonyoung for himself. What's worse was Wonwoo realizing that he may be loving Soonyoung to feel better about being the less-talked about son and the literature student his professors never really liked. What's worse was Wonwoo realizing that he just wanted the love to be returned back at the exact amount he gave, none of this devotion Soonyoung so readily gave him, Wonwoo's pockets empty without enough change to give Soonyoung back his worth.

It wasn't just a threat. There was a change in pressure that Wonwoo couldn't ignore. He had let it grow stale for too long, for over twenty years and more, and the rot decided to fester where Soonyoung resided in his consciousness.

What was an easy concept became an abstract theory, leaving Wonwoo to futilely grasp it by the strings.

ii. Avogadro's Law

Volume of gas is directly proportional to the amount of gaseous substance present under constant temperature and pressure.

It wasn't hard to be in love. Soonyoung would never stop scoffing at the dramas playing on their television, how they made it sound like either a curse or a miracle, because that wasn't what he found it to be.

Love was more or less constant. It didn't decrease with the increasing number of days he spent with Wonwoo; but it wasn't like Soonyoung needed it to grow. It was fine between the two of them. Too much of the love would be stifling, anyway, and Soonyoung wouldn't want that. Whatever he had was good enough, better than anything he had ever wished for.

But knowing that too much of it would be stifling made him direct the calm between them somewhere else. It was quiet, too quiet, almost static when they were together, and Soonyoung didn't know, still doesn't know if he should've counted the silence as being comfortable. In the quiet of a dark room and sheets over them, Soonyoung let his heart grow instead of the love between them. This way, it wouldn't touch Wonwoo, wouldn't suffocate the two of them because he was only digging at his own yard; spacing out his own ribcage for the love he knew had nowhere to go, because the more he thought about it, it wasn't quite love. Close enough as an emotion and maybe even stronger, but it wasn't love per se.

It wasn't love, but it was Wonwoo, and Soonyoung closed his eyes every night to Wonwoo's soft fingers playing at the strands of his hair.

Living together, helping Wonwoo find a job despite the wrong contacts he had, forcing the studio owner to hire Wonwoo as admin for just two months because he needed the money and Soonyoung had his hands full with dance. Simple things. What wouldn't Soonyoung do if it meant another day with Wonwoo content by his side?

But Soonyoung still has nightmares from that one showcase six years ago. If he stopped moving for long enough, he would still be able to feel it, some phantom pain rendering his knee useless again when it was fine. It was perfectly fine. Wonwoo scolded him every time he came home late from the studio, and Soonyoung would mutter a half-hearted apology before trudging into the bathroom, shower like the arctic as he twisted the knob to the far right end, blue paint chipping off plated iron.

Soonyoung knew he didn't have much time left as a dancer, that it was only a matter of months before he would hear that loud snap for the second time in his short life and say goodbye to what had been the only thing driving him to whatever high point he had managed to reach. He didn't just let it happen; Soonyoung wore his knee brace often, to the point where he wouldn't take it off save for showers. He did his stretches, he tried to take care of the tiny strips of muscle he couldn't even see. He tried. But trying is never good enough and Soonyoung never did well enough to save himself.

If Wonwoo noticed, he didn't say anything. He stared when he thought Soonyoung wasn't looking, and he'd quickly avert his gaze whenever Soonyoung so much as peered over his shoulder. Clocking back their little game of tag, maybe that was when Soonyoung started realizing that there was something off about the way he would curl defensively around his leg, fingers deftly tying up his laces while Wonwoo watched on from somewhere in the kitchen, teeth gnawing on the skin of his hangnails because of course, Soonyoung wouldn't notice, would he? Soonyoung wouldn't feel the burn of his gaze, boring holes into flesh that had been doomed for years.

It was Soonyoung's fault, mostly, for being so ambitious when he was still so young. He didn't listen to Wonwoo then, didn't listen the second time either, because there was exhilaration in having a single dream like this, such a one track mind. A purpose. Racing against time and insecurities and his own frustrations before dancing stopped being a dream to terrorize him, like some hero in a demented quest but Soonyoung saw the game over screen barely five minutes into the first dungeon.

It wasn't love, but it was Wonwoo, and in Soonyoung's frantic run against one of the only things he held so dear, he had forced Wonwoo into the hollow of his heart, the one he had forced to expand, the space he had carved out specially in his chest because he knew dance had no place there anymore. He would never call Wonwoo a replacement, but maybe a plug, a filler, just to complete the gaps he knew that familiar snap would bring to his insides the second time round.

But Wonwoo was human, just as human as he is, and Soonyoung couldn't force him to live choked on Soonyoung's blood, pulsing straight down his throat and probably burning Wonwoo's. His knee throbbed, hotter and sharper with each passing day, and Soonyoung didn't know how much more he could run before the pressure of ligaments stretched taut breaks him along with whatever was left in the mangled space of his chest.

Neither did he know that the second time would leave a crater in him instead of the hairline cracks he had expected.

iii. Boyle's Law

Volume of gas is inversely proportional to the pressure of the gas under constant temperature and amount of gaseous substance present.

Wonwoo hated himself. Greatly.

He knew something was awfully wrong with them, with him, the moment he realized he didn't like seeing the notification on his phone whenever Soonyoung would text him I got it, they're gonna use my choreography for this, I got the part. He would leave the message to go stale for at least five minutes, longer even, except it wouldn't because the timestamp burned itself to the forefront of Wonwoo's mind and he couldn't ignore it without feeling like he just killed something.  

Congratulations, he would type back, his chest tight. We should celebrate.

It was ten times worse in person, when he attended Soonyoung's showcases on a more regular basis. He didn't think it obligatory; it was a pleasure to watch Soonyoung dance. Wonwoo loved watching every step, every roll and wave of the lithe body he knew so well, every pop and lock of joints he would probably have to massage later on at home. But with the execution of every complex movement came the fear of sterile white sheets, a sour-smelling waiting room with horrible reception as gurneys get rolled in every ten minutes or so with shrill screams to accompany.

Wonwoo's balance steadily dropped into the negatives, and he worried his lips raw every time the bills came in, worried them red, as red as Soonyoung's name stamped for way too many months than he was comfortable with while Wonwoo's was absent. Wonwoo would always have a frown, then, while Soonyoung had this constant smile plastered on his face, too easy and too free, like nothing was wrong at all. Like he couldn't feel how Wonwoo's stomach lurched at even the smallest crack or pop of Soonyoung's joints, the snapping of his ankles when Soonyoung twisted them first thing in the morning.

"Wonwoo!" Soonyoung cheered, hopping off the stage with his trophy and bouquet of fake flowers in his arms. "How was I?"

"Beautiful," Wonwoo replied, slightly breathless and he wasn't even the one who danced. That much was sincere, truthful because Soonyoung was indeed beautiful onstage, mesmerizing him with every move but Wonwoo knew of the sweat and tears dotted across Soonyoung's floor plan notebook. Then came the congratulations and forced smiles, a mild ache for his cheeks but he felt it sink his heart all the way down to the pits of his stomach, drowned in acid reflux Wonwoo tasted at the back of his throat. The almost lethal warmth of Soonyoung's embrace nearly suffocating him from how sweaty and hot it was; it was a small mercy whatever twisted deity up there had given him. Wonwoo took it zealously, buried his face into Soonyoung's wet shoulders. Yet that didn't stop Wonwoo from trudging into the bathroom and vomit his guts dry when another plaque of achievement ended up on the empty part of his bookshelf, when he had counted down to the minutes and seconds to make sure Soonyoung was asleep before he loses himself in a bowl of his own putrid stench.

Trophies and certificates overtook his bookshelves anyway. They didn't care. The bile swirling down the toilet bowl wasn't strong enough to burn through fake gold and laminated paper. Hell, it wasn't strong enough to burn past the lining of his esophagus. Wonwoo wondered if this was his limit, if this was all he was capable of, weak with a heart so small and unable to think of anything or anyone but himself because that was Wonwoo; weak, horrifyingly meek and without anything to offer the world, to Soonyoung—weak, just like his writing.

"Your brother just got an acting offer!" his mother had called one night. Wonwoo can't remember when exactly. "When will you publish something?"

Wait. The glowing red numbers say three in the morning. Soonyoung fast asleep, snoring, breaths even. Tiptoe to the bathroom. Hands on the toilet bowl, knees chafing against the tiles.

Soonyoung had found him sprawled over the bathroom tiles in the morning once, twice. A few times.

iv. 8.314 Jmol^-1K^-1

The Ideal or Universal gas constant is used in place of the Boltzmann constant by working with amount of substance present instead of pure particle count (the ideal number of particles).

"Are we a thing? Legitimately?" Soonyoung had asked once. A really long time ago, it feels, when it's only been four years tops. Whatever. Time is irrelevant. Soonyoung gestured between their bodies. "Whatever is between. Me. You."

They weren't too far apart, but they weren't close either, more or less a few inches between them as they laid down sprawled on a mat Wonwoo had borrowed from one of his classmates. There were stars above them—imaginary, of course, they were in the city—and Soonyoung itched to make a bolder move beyond just linking fingers with Wonwoo's. There was something more between them, Soonyoung believed. They were beyond just friends. Or even boyfriends. Something about them that was irreplaceable.

"Fuck," Wonwoo breathed out, his chuckle airy and helpless. "I've told you this but. I love you. I love you a lot. Take it however you want, I just love you."

Soonyoung knew that. There were a lot of ways to take in love. So many his poor head couldn't even begin to fathom, and settled for the cliched answer of I love you too before kissing Wonwoo again. The act itself wasn't new, but it felt like such when he met Wonwoo's lips for what must've been the hundredth time then, too easy, too natural, almost like clockwork.

Fast-forward to three and a half, almost four years after that. There would be Wonwoo, so far into his own world that not even Soonyoung could step inside. But that was okay. Wonwoo needed the space, needed his own head to write. Soonyoung had already forced Wonwoo into himself, he deserved that much, to be separated from this failure of a muse. What was a muse when Wonwoo wouldn't even answer him for dinner options before the fifth call? What was a muse when what little flesh Wonwoo had stuck to his skeleton melted away with each passing day, leaving him dry and thin when Soonyoung cradled him in sleep? Soonyoung being a muse might as well have been delusional, self-proclaimed.

There would be no Wonwoo without Soonyoung, however, even if the Soonyoung to accompany him was a slave to the billboard top forty mixed in with whatever beat his students found. Even if the Soonyoung in question was never at home as much as he was in the studio, bathed in his own sweat and reminded of the ticking time bomb that was his knee. Even if the Soonyoung in question was kind of tired of spooning Wonwoo every night, was just needy for someone to care for him, just him and him alone entirely for one whole night. He couldn't possibly, though; he would spoon Wonwoo forever, trail after him like a blinded man because he didn't give himself any choice. Thoughts of ignoring Wonwoo would just end up with Soonyoung coming home half an hour later than expected, Wonwoo's favorite set meal in his hands even though he was the grimiest being alive, leg muscles screaming and his shirt clung disgustingly to his skin.

Dance and Wonwoo were the only constants he had in life, and Soonyoung's knee wouldn't stop hurting, its limit approaching like a freight train in slow motion. Soonyoung could see it happen—the snap, the hot-cold-hot-cold flashes, the feeling of evaporating from the inside out to follow the film reel of his life in sepia because he knew that this time, it would permanent. It wouldn't just be a surgery and some rehabilitation at the physiotherapy center. Soonyoung would have to give up dance for good. Like a kid's pop-up storybook, Soonyoung saw the paper's skeleton, how it unfolded and how to destroy it for the next toddler's reading experience to be ruined like his own.

He chased after each medal, each trophy, each competition; like a dying man, he wanted to go out with a flash, with a bang. Maybe he was competitive, maybe he just wanted to be remembered. Maybe Soonyoung was ready to abandon dance in the gutter and place the sun of his universe in Wonwoo, ready to orbit around him forever. He was ready for Wonwoo to be his only constant, for the rest of his life, however he might end up in the future. He thought he was ready for the quiet greetings of hey, welcome back home, of going to bed alone and barely feeling the dip in the mattress when Wonwoo crawled in hours later, of seeing the read 2 minutes ago notification on his phone when he texted that he was doing well, he was going places, he was climbing up higher with each twist of his knee. Soonyoung thought what he couldn't get out of the relationship at the time, he could've gotten out of choreographing complex dance sets, out of his name in music video credits, the crowd cheering for him whenever he went upstage.

Congratulations, Wonwoo typed in reply so many times before, and Soonyoung knew it was ten minutes too late for such a short reply, like always. And he knew Wonwoo only meant half of it; a hundred percent sincerity yet only thirty-five percent of his true feelings.

Soonyoung had always known, but that didn't stop him from texting Wonwoo first every goddamned time.

v.  n

The amount of gaseous substance present within the closed system.

It was deja vu. The same ugly thing repeating itself in a sick cycle Wonwoo really wished he knew how to end.

"You need a break," he said, too many times.

Soonyoung would tell him the same thing in reply, like an automated answering machine. "I really don't, honest."

And honest Soonyoung was. Wonwoo knew that it was important. Dance was important. He couldn't ever imagine Soonyoung not dancing—it had become part of his identity, for better or worse. But he saw one too many times, Soonyoung's fingers rubbing at a sore spot on his knee; a spot he remembered to be swelling with blood, glistening from the tears rolling down the skin darkened by broken capillaries, torn muscle. He saw the slight grimace whenever Soonyoung stretched in the mornings, the quickest flash of pain in his eyes before it went back to normal, count of five six seven eight even and breathing stable. Wonwoo remembered sterile white, remembered grey tears, ill-fitting hospital gown draped over Soonyoung's undeserving frame and the cold rivulets of water from the hospital's weak shower trailing down his skin. Soonyoung's control over himself was impeccable, but Wonwoo's wasn't.

"Quit dance," he snapped, too many times.

Soonyoung would probably be in the doorway still, gross and sweaty and Wonwoo's favorite set meal in his grip, specially ordered to have no fish in its soup stock. "I won't."

And so on and so forth. Wonwoo felt like losing his mind; he didn't even know for whom he was getting angry for anymore. Was it even for Soonyoung's sake? No, no it wasn't. It was never for Soonyoung's sake. Nothing was ever for Soonyoung's sake because he didn't need it. He was some superhero, the protagonist of his own story and Wonwoo was the randomly generated citizen in the background scenery who the creators didn't even bother to color in. Soonyoung smiled every morning, wound his arms around Wonwoo's waist during bad nights to pull him into bed, never forgot to pick out the shrimp from his takeout because I don't want you to die an ugly, puffy death, duh. All Wonwoo did in return was let his heart shrink even further, shriveling from how petty he had allowed himself to be. Whether Soonyoung still had space to reside there, Wonwoo didn't know. He didn't know anything anymore, whatever skin exposed to the world cut up by the sharp edges of manuscripts and endless deadlines.

Soonyoung spent less time up on his feet at home, and Wonwoo's early morning trips to the toilet bowl became increasingly frequent. He could tell Soonyoung was getting tired of it, of finding Wonwoo still wearing the same outfit since yesterday, hair a greasy mess and breath probably reeking like a week-old corpse. When Soonyoung bent down to Wonwoo's level, he heard it, the crack that was hardly subtle, Soonyoung's grimace which followed after the first thing to register in his bleary vision.

"Are you okay?" Soonyoung asked. His face was close, so close yet so far away with every other trophy, every medal, every picture of Soonyoung and his dance team in some country winning some dance competition covering his books' spines.

No, I'm not. You're not. Can we please stop pretending that we are?

Soonyoung was a superhero, and Wonwoo wished every day that Soonyoung would be average for once, closer to where Wonwoo was below the line of mediocrity and an obvious lack of color. Staring straight into the sun would blind him less than waking up to Soonyoung's smile, Wonwoo thought.

The bathroom lights are stark and Wonwoo felt like ten kinds of death, ribs brittle and crumbling when he realized that his heart, once the size of a whole fist and strong, was now nothing more than a tiny shred of muscle barely hanging on to the rest of him, losing itself by the day and Wonwoo just wanted the courage to get out. He wanted out. They were out of balance; Wonwoo didn't know just where Soonyoung kept gathering all his strength and capability to still love because Wonwoo couldn't find it no matter how hard he tried. He was drained, high and dry and the deficit on his part was driving him mad.

But it was only morning; Wonwoo couldn't even feel his limbs yet. The insides of his stomach burned and he let his head loll forward, thumping dully on Soonyoung's chest.

"I'm sorry," he croaked out, throat sore and raw. "I'm really sorry. I love you."

Between Wonwoo's I love you and Soonyoung's equally soft reply of I love you too, everything was alright. In that small window of time, everything balanced out, and Wonwoo could keep pretending that he had enough love in him to pay Soonyoung back in earnest.

vi. V

The volume of gaseous substance present within the closed system.

Soonyoung had been digging out everything in him to make space for Wonwoo. This, he knew.

Wonwoo had to leave on short notice for a relative's funeral once, and Soonyoung was okay with it. They could deal with some distance for some time. It wasn't a big deal. Soonyoung went on overseas competitions all the time. It was alright.

Soonyoung came home to an empty apartment, but it didn't feel out of place. Wonwoo's greetings were that soft. If Soonyoung concentrated hard enough, his ears would somehow fabricate the familiar low voiced mumble of welcome back, and that was okay with him. Practice had been going well, extremely so, even with the odd stares he'd been getting from his co-instructor.

Tonight was a particular night, however. Instead of showering and doing his stretches, however, Soonyoung went straight to the kitchen, dragging himself on his good leg all the way to the refrigerator. His palms were slicked with sweat, scrabbling for purchase on the metal handles and Soonyoung had no idea how loudly he was breathing, but his heart was hammering on his ribcage, destroying it completely and his lungs were imploding into themselves along with his guts collapsing from the panic.

He thought he had prepared well, that he was ready for the inevitable to happen. But explosions make it into the news for a reason; they're sudden, impactful. And if the paralyzing pain threatening to burn Soonyoung alive starting from his knee wasn't impactful, nothing would ever be.

With hands quaking violently against his will, Soonyoung dropped two trays' worth of ice cubes before they made it to his knee. The refrigerator door was still open when he slipped on one of them, ankle twisted in an effort to break his fall. His eyes were watering, lights broken into fragments against the tears clumping his lashes when he scooted closer to the lower cabinets. Face pressed against wood that was infinitely warm compared to the ice dripping down his arms, Soonyoung realized that he was whimpering all along, breaths uneven and coming out in wheezes while his hands turn numb. The fire that was his swelling knee didn't subside in the slightest; hotter than a scald but not enough of a scorch to burn his nerves away. Soonyoung was sure that the ice wasn't even melting from his body heat anymore. Excruciating pain tested the limits of his consciousness and made Soonyoung take forever to remember where his phone was, where Wonwoo was. It took him forever, and his hands spread water all over the screen, but Soonyoung couldn't find it in him to care.

There was a text from Wonwoo, saying that he would be home in two days. Oh right, right. He had a funeral to attend. Relatives to sympathize with. Right. Soonyoung tapped the call button.

"Soonyoung?" came Wonwoo's voice, and Soonyoung can imagine his blank features; the lazy sweep of Wonwoo's lashes and his dismissive gaze. He wanted to see Wonwoo, at least watch him blink in real time. Soonyoung meant to smile, but he caught his reflection in the puddle of melted ice underneath him, and it showed an ugly grimace on his face instead.

Soonyoung's knee was killing him, killing his entire dream and possibly derailing the once neat track that was his life; maybe it was good that Wonwoo wasn't home to witness this. He wasn't around to be grossed out at the horror that was Soonyoung curled up against the kitchen cabinets, by the refrigerator with its freezer door opened and their electricity bills flying off the roof, Soonyoung in a pool of his own sweat and tears and melted ice cubes which rippled in time with his trembling.

"Soonyoung, are you okay?"

If this were a normal night, and Soonyoung were to be within the four glass walls of the shower, he'd say yes, I'm okay, it's been a good day, I miss you, I can't wait to see you, I love you. But tonight was a particular night, and Soonyoung was paralyzed in their tiny kitchen and he couldn't think, couldn't understand anything, couldn't understand how he'd managed to break himself so much and expect Wonwoo to fix it all.

"Please help me," he sobbed. "Please, come back and fucking help me."

vii. P

The pressure of gaseous substance present within the closed system.

A few hundred thousand less in his account, several very miffed relatives, and one surgery later, Wonwoo found Soonyoung bedridden and washed in white. The hospital gown was as ill-fitting as ever.

"Hey," Soonyoung rasped, drugged out of his mind and eyes mere slits on his face. "Long flight?"

The question slipped out of his lips before Wonwoo's tongue could hold it down and process it into something better, less hurtful and not as accusatory. "Why?"

"Same old," Soonyoung exhales, deflated. His leg was propped up, like it was six years ago, and Wonwoo didn't know whether to wreck himself with guilt or feel grateful that he wasn't there to see the hideous swell of blood before the surgery. Cowardice. Add a third option to that; Wonwoo chose to paint himself in shame. "I can't dance anymore, y'know," he mumbles, "s'permanent."

Wonwoo's black suit was the only hint of color amidst the sterile white of Soonyoung's ward, but he wasn't the slightest bit relieved or satisfied from it. Wonwoo wanted to take it all back, to let Soonyoung live his life in full technicolor, for Wonwoo himself to remain a blip of grey in the background because it was okay, it was better that way, anything was better than Soonyoung limp and bleary-eyed on the hard hospital bed with a knee that didn't want to recover a second time.

"C'mon, I can pitch in for another surgery," Wonwoo suggested, fingers tugging none-too-gently on Soonyoung's still digits, stiff and cold on the blanket. The air he was breathing in was as crushing as a three-hundred feet trench, salt beginning to sting the corners of his eyes. "I have time to take you to rehab, I can make time. Two years? Three years? Soonyoung—"

"Quit it, Wonwoo," Soonyoung snapped, shaking Wonwoo's fingers away with what little energy he managed to muster in his state. "They can't fix it, okay? Just gonna have to live with this."

Soonyoung has to live with this. Not me, but Soonyoung. Soonyoung doesn't deserve this but he's going to live with it, I should live with it, this is all my fault my fault my fault was all that circled Wonwoo's frazzled mind then, the litany driven by panic and Wonwoo didn't realize he was crying until Soonyoung's eyes widened by a fraction in his direction, hand extended out weakly to Wonwoo's face, but it couldn't reach. Wonwoo met him halfway, fingers slotting into the spaces between Soonyoung's, quivering and his jagged nails digging into the dry skin over Soonyoung's knuckles. He finally met Soonyoung halfway, but it was too late, much too late, and Wonwoo knew he was pathetic, that he was worthless in the story, useless even in his unnecessary role of being a random person among the crowd.

"I'm sorry," he choked out, pathetic and whiny in between his whimpers. There were fat tears rolling down his face and Wonwoo was sure there was snot dripping down his chin. Disgusting. But what was new? "I'm so sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" Soonyoung asked, gentle and patient and it just made Wonwoo cry harder. He didn't deserve Soonyoung, truly. His balance ran on a constant deficit and Wonwoo wasn't sure if he would ever have enough to return Soonyoung with. The numbers went higher with every circle Soonyoung's thumb rubbed on the back of Wonwoo's palm, pressure increasing with every second Soonyoung's gaze refused to waver from Wonwoo. Funny how the tables had turned; Wonwoo remembered having to wipe Soonyoung's tears away, thumbs too harsh and turning the skin under his eyes ruddy all those years ago. Soonyoung was the lost one, freaking out and running around blind like his whole world was crashing down. The exact same thing was happening, except Wonwoo couldn't shake off the feeling that he dropped Soonyoung's world onto the hard floor and failed to pick up the pieces, didn't manage to glue them back together in time. Funny how Wonwoo could no longer comprehend a single thing about himself, about Soonyoung, about what was in between them anymore, when he had once been so sure.

"I don't know. I'm sorry."

Soonyoung knew better than to press further. "I'm gonna go to sleep, okay?" he whispered. "Staying?"

"Yeah," Wonwoo sniffled, wiping away the grime off his face with the sleeve of his borrowed suit. "Yeah, I am."

Soonyoung smiled, a really small one, and Wonwoo nearly missed it. It didn't ease his mind any, in fact made his limbs twenty times heavier as he painstakingly dragged one of the stools closer to him.

Once, Wonwoo was confident. Sitting by Soonyoung's bed like this, he had sworn to guard Soonyoung for life. And it wasn't like Soonyoung was going to die, but he might as well be, because as bad as it was, no one could ever imagine Soonyoung not dancing. But this—they didn't even know if Soonyoung could run or walk without a limp after getting discharged. Soonyoung was dying, but this time without the smear of eyeliner or stage costume as his medals, without fanfare and no one to mourn for him but Wonwoo.

This was as low as Wonwoo could go, watching Soonyoung's chest rise and fall in a weak rhythm that was nothing compared to the rabid thumping of Wonwoo's heart going berserk from having found itself after so long. It was back, the size of a whole fist and Wonwoo wanted so badly to punch it for not returning sooner when it could've cushioned Soonyoung's fall. He was supposed to guard, to protect, but Wonwoo was that one lonely, sad dog from that one tearjerker of a movie he might or might not have watched with Soonyoung at one point in time. Now, all he could do was wait, futilely, simmering slowly in the agonizing quiet of his own guilt because he had failed the one person he had pledged his everything to.

Wonwoo indulged in letting himself break; the pressure had swallowed him whole before he could notice it creeping up behind him.

viii. T

The absolute temperature of the gaseous substance present within the closed system.

When you put a thermometer into anything, you expect a certain number, a certain temperature. Fingers trying their hardest to keep the glass steady, you watch the mercury rise, inch up painstakingly slow and you heave a sigh when it finally gets there, meniscus be damned. You don't even realize that you've held your breath for so long. Knowing when to take the thermometer out doesn't change the quick hitch of your heartbeat when the mercury is a mere millimeter away from where you want it to be.

Soonyoung saw it coming. The template-quality replies from Wonwoo, congratulatory texts which must've been thought over five nights before and proofread thrice before sending when he didn't need to. Far-off stares to his trophies and medals overtaking Wonwoo's shelves, because they didn't have enough space to house them all without cluttering up the place. Soonyoung had said sorry for it once. Wonwoo dismissed him with a tight smile. The heat of his hands by Soonyoung's on the hospital bed were scalding in the cold, air-conditioned ward, and Soonyoung closed his eyes to travel back in time.

Even then, six years ago or so, Wonwoo had never been able to carry Soonyoung far on his back. Oh, he tried, but even when Soonyoung was at his lightest before performances, Wonwoo was all skin and bones, weak. Soonyoung didn't love him any less for it. In fact, he may have found it endearing. Someone so weak and meek and downright fragile trying so hard to be the pillar supporting the weight that was Soonyoung's entire existence.

But to carry so much with so little—Soonyoung knew he was wearing Wonwoo down. He knew he was going to burn Wonwoo out even more after this. With dance out of his life, there wasn't much to grasp onto other than Wonwoo's shoulders, still sharp and bony even under the suit's padding. Soonyoung touched it lightly, merely tracing the seam of the blazer top because he needed to stop breaking Wonwoo like this, needed to stop making Wonwoo clean up after his own bloody mess because it was his own to clean, goddammit.

Soonyoung wanted to scream his lungs out until they collapse, until his throat was raw, vocal cords as torn as the ligaments in his knees. But it was dark in the ward, so dark and so quiet Soonyoung tread through the mess in his head with bated breath, too scared to break the momentary peace that Wonwoo was finally in. It was always when Wonwoo was at the brink, at the very precipice, just an inch before he slips down into whatever abyss Soonyoung pushed him into that Soonyoung needed all this fixing up. Wonwoo had things to do, actual work, goals and aspirations more complicated than Soonyoung's childish dreams of dancing for as long as he was allowed to. Soonyoung had to stop holding him back so much, stop pestering him incessantly with annoying texts and selfish ideas of getting himself pampered when Wonwoo needed that shoulder massage more than Soonyoung ever did.

He scoffed, but it was wet and sticky, phlegm and tears clogging the back of his throat and Soonyoung hated himself so damned much because even if some god out there were to take pity on him and give Soonyoung his legs back, he wouldn't budge. Soonyoung wouldn't ever be able to pry himself away from Wonwoo's side, wouldn't ever find it in him to walk away on his own.

When he woke the next morning, it was to Wonwoo's hands wiping at the tear tracks on his cheeks, still miraculously warm and Soonyoung briefly wondered if those very palms could've turned his ugly tears into steam. Wonwoo was frighteningly gentle, none of the panic from six years ago—Soonyoung remembered how raw his cheeks felt after when Wonwoo rubbed his tears away the first time.

"Soon-ah," Wonwoo called out, barely above a whisper but it rang louder than any bell, any siren, any cheer from all the audiences Soonyoung had heard in his life. He felt infinitely bloated, swollen like something was about to burst open out of him. Frightening how much power a voice had over his name. Frightening how much power Wonwoo had over his being. Frightening how Wonwoo existed with him, in the same lifetime.

Eyes puffy and knee starting to throb again with the drugs wearing off, Soonyoung muttered weakly, "Do you wanna breakup?"

Soonyoung didn't want to rely on his heart anymore. He tried hard to stop his eardrums from imagining the steady beat of Wonwoo's pulse, instead concentrating with all his might on the steady drips of IV fluid going into his veins.

"...No," Wonwoo said at long last, huffing the word out like it was smog. He had this grimace on him, a smile so fake it made Soonyoung cringe inwardly. "No, Soonyoung, I would never—I love you." Wonwoo was shaking when he leaned forward to hold Soonyoung, cradling his head, dry hair and all, in his arms. Soonyoung's senses were overloaded on fading cologne and the stale scent of incense, but he didn't care. "I love you. I love you so much, god, Soonyoung, Soon-ah, I love you so fucking much, please. Please don't say that again."

All that mattered was that Soonyoung was in Wonwoo's arms, and Wonwoo was in his. Blood was going back into the IV tube and Soonyoung's arms were sore as hell, but he didn't care.

"Okay," he whispered, muffled by the padding of Wonwoo's blazer. "Okay."

ix. ΔS^θ

Change in entropy of a system determines reversibility of a thermodynamic process.

Soonyoung went back to rehab, less strenuous this time since they weren't counting on much other than getting him to walk properly again. Wonwoo hoped it didn't show, his ugly wish for Soonyoung to be able to run, jump, and dance again. Six years ago felt like sixty, six hundred, because Wonwoo for the life of him couldn't remember how he managed to wait outside of the physiotherapy center every day, sitting down doing absolutely nothing but distract himself with reams of paper printed in the same black Garamond-esque font until Soonyoung emerged out of the automatic glass door, tired and lifeless.

"Wonwoo," he called one night, scrolling through his phone in bed while Wonwoo just got out of the shower. Wonwoo was grateful for the towel over his head, muffling Soonyoung's voice somewhat because he knew that voice. It was the smaller one, almost weak and leaning towards a pleading tone. Soonyoung used it whenever they argued, whenever he got stressed and couldn't even bring himself to get his words out right.

"Yeah?"

Soonyoung turned to look at him right when Wonwoo let the towel down to drape over his shoulders. He wished he at least had clothes on, maybe a sweater, so the fingers restlessly kneading on the damp towel wouldn't be such a painfully obvious sight. Soonyoung was kind of an idiot at times, but he wasn't stupid, and if he caught onto Wonwoo, well.

"I can't dance anymore, okay?" Soonyoung muttered, but Wonwoo heard him loud and clear. "I'll still go to the studio, make choreographies and train the kids and everything but. I won't be dancing. You know this, right?"

Wonwoo threw him the tiniest grin, just shy of a grimace, and looked down on his toes. Staring straight into Soonyoung's eyes felt too much like a courtroom, like him passing judgment onto Wonwoo and it spelled nothing but doom for the both of them. He padded over to the closet, grabbed a shirt before joining Soonyoung in bed. Wonwoo pulled Soonyoung closer to him, back pressed against Wonwoo's chest as he wound his arms around Soonyoung' waist. It was definitely comfortable, definitely warm, but Wonwoo knew he was being avoidant. The Soonyoung in his arms wasn't completely the same Soonyoung he knew, chipped around the edges from having his core taken away from him, so Wonwoo gripped him tight, afraid that this Soonyoung would slip through the crevices between his skinny arms.

"I know," Wonwoo murmured into the crook of Soonyoung's neck, still smelling like soap from when he had showered before Wonwoo did. "I'll keep it in mind. I got you."

"Do you really?" Soonyoung asked him in turn. Wonwoo didn't hear the question as much as he felt it, the accusation stinging badly against his lips still pressed onto Soonyoung's skin. No sound followed after that, their breaths inaudible compared to the static in Wonwoo's head. He left it that way and clambered on top of Soonyoung, spindly fingers waving themselves into Soonyoung's still damp hair. Wonwoo's lips were no longer gentle when he mashed their mouths together.

They ended up sweaty again despite just showering, but Wonwoo didn't mind. The question was forgotten, buried underneath their panting and moaning for at least one more night.

The days droned on, however, and Wonwoo was only human. He could swear upon everything on the face of planet earth that he would take care of Soonyoung, he always would, but the deadlines strangled him from head to toe, and there were only so many of Soonyoung's bad days he could handle before he breaks from all the self-imposed stress and responsibility.

The new Soonyoung would come back from the dance studio significantly less sweaty than what Wonwoo was used to welcoming back home, significantly less happy, set meal in his hands but it had been about thrice that he forgot to specially order the soup without fish in its stock. Wonwoo was no longer alone until three in the morning, Soonyoung up with him, face tinted the same hue of blue from the computer as he watched video after video of choreographies, techniques, progress shots of his students, everything under the condition that it was dance-related. It felt surreal the first time Wonwoo had to pry Soonyoung away from his computer to sleep, his old words of you can't run on ten hours of sleep over three days tumbling out of Wonwoo's lips.

The new Soonyoung smiled a lot less, what used to be crinkles by his eyes moving to settle underneath his dark eye bags. But he held Wonwoo a lot closer, almost clingy, as if every inch of exposed skin had glue to stick onto Wonwoo with. The new Soonyoung didn't kiss sweetly, gently, nor did he kiss softly. It was either a quick peck in the mornings before he left for the studio, tired ones that weren't even proper kisses as much as it was lips almost desperately grazing against skin during the hours between six and nine in the evening, or the harsh ones in the hours around midnight—the violent ones where teeth and tongue would join in all rushed as if they were missing out on something major, spit-slicked lips gleaming in the dark and under the sheets was a heat rivaling that of their muggy summers. The mornings which followed those nights tended to be a mental hangover, skulls hollow and heartbeats slow. Purple would dot the corners of their cut-up lips, and they rubbed ointment over each other before the cycle repeated itself with another swift peck, Soonyoung gone, out of the door as hastily as he kissed Wonwoo goodbye for the day.

The new Soonyoung had a face that grew darker and more sullen by the day, bordering on hostile when he watched the reruns of his dance competitions playing at random hours of the evening. The television was showing the rival team, and Soonyoung scoffed into his palm, earning Wonwoo's attention as the movement got carried through to a small shake of Soonyoung's shoulder which he was resting on.

"Fuck," Soonyoung chuckled dryly. "That was an easy move. He shouldn't have fucked that up."

Wonwoo couldn't respond with much, feeling Soonyoung tense underneath him. Soonyoung was always tense lately. Wonwoo thought it was all the dance in his life when the dance world had kicked Soonyoung out. Soonyoung was stretched taut, fraying at the seams and Wonwoo felt the limit but didn't know where it was, couldn't loosen it and ease the knots Soonyoung had twisted himself into.

There should be no difference in loving the new Soonyoung and the Soonyoung Wonwoo knew since over ten, almost twenty years ago. But the gradient between the two felt too steep, and Wonwoo wondered where it all went, the two boys with matching school uniforms walking home to the same train station before parting a few blocks down the street. Karmic retribution, he answered his own mind, because it had to be that. This was all work done by the universe against Wonwoo because he didn't keep to his oath, couldn't kill the ugly within him for Soonyoung to stay alive. He had one job, and botched it spectacularly.

"Y'know, Wonwoo," Soonyoung started. He had this paper-thin smile on his face, crumply and Wonwoo knew it was going to haunt him for weeks. "You're not one to take care of people, are you?"

Wonwoo snaked his arms around Soonyoung's waist, pressing his face deep into the crook of Soonyoung's neck because he couldn't trust himself to not cry. "Guess I'm not."

"You took care of me, though, back then."

Piggyback rides to and fro the physiotherapist. Of course Wonwoo managed that. Most times it was only some measly distance away from Soonyoung's parents' car. It wasn't difficult. He didn't take care of Soonyoung.

"Your parents took care of you. They paid the bills, paid for your single room in the hospital and drove you around until you could walk again," Wonwoo rectified. "I didn't do shit."

"You think you didn't?"

"I know I didn't."

The television kept a steady hum of white noise around them, making the conversation just shy of tolerable. Didn't change the fact that Wonwoo was itching to jump off the window, though.

"You think you're taking care of me now?" Soonyoung asked, his lilt at the last word infuriating but again, who was Wonwoo getting angry for?

Wonwoo wished for maybe a second pair of lids, or a different eye mechanism for the broken-hearted, because he screwed his eyes shut to the point where it hurt, yet it didn't feel like it was enough. Nothing felt quite enough anymore and Wonwoo was no friend, no lover, no guard dog, no keeper; he was a monster, selfish and greedy, and did nothing but take take take from Soonyoung because nothing felt enough and he couldn't ever give enough. Tears wouldn't pay for anything but Wonwoo shed them in excess, the fatter drops making it down his cheeks while most were absorbed by Soonyoung's shirt.

"Soon-ah," Wonwoo muttered defeatedly, "stop."

Soonyoung brought his legs up onto the couch, shifting so that Wonwoo was in his lap.

Wonwoo forgot to mention, but the new Soonyoung was a tad cruel. Delicate fingers cupped Wonwoo's face, but Soonyoung's palms felt like a branding iron. There was no way for Wonwoo to hide himself, his worst completely exposed in front of Soonyoung's unwavering gaze and he had no say in it whatsoever. There he was, knowing of how this was going to end, of the inevitable, of how he had fucked up the one good thing in his life, yet Soonyoung leaned in for a kiss like it was any other evening.

For the first time in a very long time, however, it wasn't a quick morning peck, a tired afternoon touch, or teeth clacking at night. It spoke of yearning that was nearly two decades old, of ratty notebooks and gel ink, sports drinks left to turn warm and gross inside a heated practice room. It was heart-wrenchingly familiar, because it was a kiss Wonwoo knew too well, had been aching for. Even in this dire moment, he dared to want more.

"I know," Soonyoung murmured against his lips, close enough to breath in each other's exhales. "I know you can't handle this much. I'm sorry for forcing you, expecting you to fix me."

"I'm sorry for making you think I could."

Television switched off, they headed to bed like nothing was wrong at all. They washed up together over the small sink with its hairline crack on Wonwoo's side, and Soonyoung casually pointed out how Wonwoo needed a haircut, toothpaste somehow getting onto the longer strands.

When Soonyoung was fast asleep, Wonwoo got up, arms sluggish yet manically quick in gathering his belongings into one huge duffel bag. The papers which had been weighing him down so much for the past couple of years were at the bottommost part of his smaller rucksack, and he had half the mind to take away one picture of him and Soonyoung together before deciding against it. That wasn't the goal here. To get Soonyoung back wasn't in his planned course of action.

He found a recent polaroid of Soonyoung, however, tacked on the fridge with a souvenir magnet his brother had sent ages ago. It was just Soonyoung beaming at the camera, jacket slipping off his shoulder and his stare wasn't fixated on anything in particular, unhinged in the way he leaned his weight onto one arm. The smile on his face lazy, eyes half-lidded and it was a state of contentment he recognized as Soonyoung being happy. Wonwoo carefully stowed the picture in his wallet.

To leave the apartment as discreetly as he could, the door closing behind him with a silent click, was Wonwoo's only mercy left for Soonyoung, the only act of sincere compassion Wonwoo could do for him with his heart wrung dry. It was Soonyoung's only mercy left for him too, probably. He must've been so tired of saying sorry as a mask for I forgive you.

One week of couch-hopping at friends' houses, and Wonwoo finally settled on a tiny flat in the outskirts of the city. One month later, he finally got used to sleeping on a single bed again, going back to the prologue where it was just him and him alone, without someone else's meals he had to worry about, without the need to spend on hot water because Wonwoo was fine with the ice beating down his back.

Three months later, one of Soonyoung's old remixes played when Wonwoo put his music library on shuffle, and he couldn't quite keep down the fourteen weeks' worth of takeout anymore, every joint in his body alight with pain. It hurt, it stung, ached all the way into the marrow of his bones where knives dug as he retched into the toilet bowl inside a bathroom that was dimmer than the one he had shared with Soonyoung because he no longer had anyone whining for him to change the defunct lightbulb out. He heaved and retched until there wasn't anything left but bile stinging the back of his throat, and Wonwoo was delirious from the clawing in his guts, from the ungodly amount of tears and sweat soaking up the hemline of his shirt.

He woke up with his face on the edge of the bowl, reeking like a dead animal in the sewer. Only this time, there was no Soonyoung to help him up off the floor.

x. Kinetic Theory of Gases

A gas is a large number of submicroscopic particles, all of which are in constant, rapid, and random motion due to collisions with each other and with the walls of the closed system's container.

It took Soonyoung an hour to get out of bed that particular morning, his legs unwilling to budge even a single inch and his eyes begged to be rubbed raw to remind him that yes, none of it was a dream. It was probably four in the morning when Wonwoo left, three or so when he started putting his things away. Soonyoung heard the rustling, the pitter patter of Wonwoo's feet not as quiet as he thought them to be. With every piece of clothing, every sheaf of paper chucked into the bag, Soonyoung felt himself sink into the bed further. He didn't dare avert his gaze away from the clock on his nightstand, afraid to catch even the briefest glimpse of Wonwoo because that would just crumble the resolve he'd tried so hard to build.

Sweet, lovable Wonwoo who had once been so nice. He was still nice, but his kindness was soaked to insincerity from Soonyoung's expectations and ideals, even though he never verbalized them. There was no need to when they were so close; Soonyoung didn't need to hear from Wonwoo that he needed time and support in writing, in taking steps away from the safety of their high school days, abandon the privilege of recklessness college had bestowed upon them. He didn't give Wonwoo that. Soonyoung could stay all he wanted, clung to Wonwoo with all his might to the point where he became a parasite, and it wouldn't help any of them. He paid for nearly eight months' worth of rent, because he just wanted to stay. He wanted Wonwoo to stay. Sad how the deal backfired so badly on Soonyoung.

Wonwoo's footfalls sounded like the ticking of a grandfather's clock—lulling in the sense that they reassured Soonyoung that this would end, this would all be over soon. Soonyoung had sunken so far into his sheets by this point that if he closed his eyes for longer than three seconds, he believed he could disappear completely. Wonwoo would disappear too, as would the whole world, the universe which was so against them.

There was a crater in Soonyoung, a gaping hollow left in him because he was a creature of obsession. If it wasn't dance, it was Wonwoo. If his hands weren't moving in sync to the music or scribbling floor plans furiously onto his notebook, it would be caressing the length of Wonwoo's thigh, trailing down the bend of his knee before pulling him closer to Soonyoung by his calves.

It was endearingly and excruciatingly considerate, how swiftly and silently Wonwoo left what Soonyoung could no longer call their home. Soonyoung unfortunately had to endure the sight of Wonwoo's silhouette once before he closed the door, his back kept in the shadows while his side profile was thrown in sharp relief from the corridor lights.

When Soonyoung finally stumbled out of bed, his heart stuttered, like it forgot how to function for two whole seconds and that was the exact time it took for Soonyoung's legs to give out underneath him—dragging his entire body down to lean by the mattress's side. Heavy sobs wracking his frame as he bawled into the afternoon, sniffling the hours away until sunset, angrily tearing up again by midnight.

Soonyoung cried for three days straight after Wonwoo left, and then some. The days withered into weeks, waned into months, and Soonyoung had nothing left in him to cry. His lungs had given up by week two.  

Spring cleaning the apartment before the lease was up resulted in Soonyoung finding his old camera. A Canon which series number he couldn't even remember anymore because he had bought it way back before even starting college, grabby hands itching to try everything under the sun at least once, including photography, and Wonwoo was only happy to indulge. He had spent hours researching and considering the perfect camera model, going so far as to seek out the shops and check their individual prices.

Soonyoung nearly lobbed it against the wall, grip tightening dangerously around the device as he remembered how the camera wasn't just his, Wonwoo had saved up for it too. Instead, he took a couple deep breaths, sliding the back open none-too-gently and plugged its memory stick into his computer.

Soonyoung spent the next hour scrolling through the forty pictures dating back to five, six years ago. They were mostly of Wonwoo, because Soonyoung was kind of a dick and wouldn't let him take pictures even though they paid for the camera equally. There were some back shots of him, taken against the night sky when he and Wonwoo used to smoke up on rooftops during house parties. There were landscapes of trees from the park close to Soonyoung's home, one blurry image of Wonwoo's little brother staring dumbly into the lens. Soonyoung cracked a smile at that, imagining the banter that must've ensued post-picture.

His vision won't leave the pictures he took of Wonwoo, however. There were all sorts of them from all angles, various lightings and backgrounds reminding Soonyoung of what they were up to before he pressed the shutter button. The heartbreak was starting to cloy at him again, so Soonyoung quickly ejected the disk and shoved it into one of the camera bag's smaller compartments. He didn't have the courage to keep any of the pictures on his person, knowing that he wouldn't be able to resist the tears and Soonyoung was a dried up rag.

Digging into the camera bag's inner pockets earned him an extra memory stick, and Soonyoung slotted it into the camera, getting back up on his feet to look for something to christen the new disk. He walked over to the largest window they had by the living room, view blinding from how cloudless it was. He peeked at the wet market just a few blocks down their apartment complex, but there weren't enough sellers when it wasn't a weekend.

Soonyoung tried the bedroom; too messy, too mediocre. Meanwhile, the bathroom was too crude and invasive. He still remembered Wonwoo's lanky limbs sprawled across the tiles whenever his deadlines were approaching, like a dead body in a crime drama. Those were bad mornings, for the both of them.

The living room was even more boring than the bedroom. The kitchen however, had their—his, Soonyoung was still trying to get used to being alone—refrigerator, with its polaroids still intact thanks to Wonwoo's brother's tacky magnets. He noticed that one of them was missing from the square of lighter grey on the freezer door, but he couldn't remember which one it was. It didn't matter much anyway. Either it went missing or Wonwoo must've took it. He was welcome to. It was a perfectly understandable act, after all. The refrigerator was littered in good times, blissfully happy memories captured in overexposed lomo.

But it was also where the dancer in him died, where the old Kwon Soonyoung died, drowned in the cesspool of sweat, tears, and melted ice cubes. It was his grave, his tombstone.

Soonyoung closed his left eye, arms steady before the appliance. He tried to get every single one of the polaroids in the frame, focused the light on the lone patch of light grey by the handle.

Click, snap, went the shutter.

xi. Boltzmann Constant

The Boltzmann constant transforms the Ideal gas law of PV=nRT into an alternative form of PV=NkT. This corresponds very well with experimental data compared to the Ideal gas law's theoretical application.

Soonyoung's phone buzzes, snapping him out of slumber with a jerk that is completely graceless, drool drying at the corners of his mouth. He swipes at the screen, irritated. "Yes, Mingyu, my sweet?"

"Shut up, hyung," Mingyu sulks from the other end of the line. The mood doesn't last long. "Get this. Get the deal I just landed us."

"I already know about the interview with the Jihan duo, tell me something new."

"No! Not Jihan!" Mingyu nearly shouts, clearly too excited for whoever it is Soonyoung will have to take the same perfectionistic pictures of again. "They're set for next month's issue. Guess who we're interviewing next week. Guess who's on the cover for this month."

"Enlighten me."

"Soonyoung-hyung," Mingyu says, excessive drama unnecessary. Soonyoung just wants to go back to sleep. His head is still on his lumpy pillow and it's awfully comfortable for once. "We're interviewing the one and only. Jeon. Won. Woo."

Wait. "Run that by me again?"

Mingyu groans in exasperation, his exhale deafening when it's so close to the receiver. "Jeon Wonwoo? Author of three bestselling novels when he just debuted last year? The Jeon Wonwoo?"

"Look, I don't read, Gyu," Soonyoung huffs. It's just an author. Wonwoo isn't that rare of a name, anyway. How many Jeon Wonwoos can South Korea have? It doesn't necessarily have to be the same Jeon Wonwoo from two years ago. Or twenty. Whatever.

Except it does, because a quick search on Naver shows him a row of profile pictures, all of various lightings and backgrounds but Soonyoung can recognize that nose anywhere. Under the pictures is a Wikipedia link, and surely enough, it is his hometown listed underneath yet another flawless picture of a familiar grin on an equally familiar face, birthdate a string of numbers Soonyoung can't forget even if he tried, barely a month after him in the same year.

"Hyung?" Mingyu calls out. "You're wasting my phone bill."

"Right, right. Sorry," Soonyoung says before hanging up on the call with a brief goodbye. He lets his arm flop back onto the bed, previous desire to sleep out the window and Soonyoung is left to stare dumbly at his ceiling.

Two years, six drunken hook-ups, and one failed attempt of dating later, Soonyoung still can't forget Wonwoo. It doesn't hurt as much as it just becomes impossible to be with anyone else to such a degree of intimacy, his sides unsatisfied when they don't feel the same knobby elbows knock against them. But he doesn't cry anymore, doesn't wake to a sore neck because somehow, the pillow moved over the night to end up in his embrace instead of under his head where it should be. Photography is nowhere near dance, but it's fun, and it pays the bills.

He's getting by, feeling just fine, he thinks, but his legs drag him to the doorway and further out into the local bookstore. Past the automatic glass doors is the bestsellers' aisle, and Soonyoung can't believe he's never noticed it before, Wonwoo's name printed in giant bold letters on cardboard at the forefront of the store. Soonyoung chortles at the naivety or plain laziness of using one's full name instead of deriving a penname, picking up the book with the sticker that announces proudly, hit debut. Its blurb at the back tells briefly of dogs and sharks and deserts. Typical Wonwoo things to write about. Soonyoung reminisces days of proofreading Wonwoo's essays.

He just wants to skim over the first couple of pages, but being the big bag of bad luck he is, Soonyoung has the misfortune to flip the book open right at its dedications, fragmented sentences looking like a stanza of a poem.

For my best friend and only lover:

You know who you are.
It must've been hard for you.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being afraid, insecure, and irresponsible.
If you ever read this, do trust me for the last time when I say that every word I've written here, in this book, and the books to come, are all true and sincere.
I loved you a lot, I hope you knew then and know now.
I still am in love with you.
I will be missing you.
Have a great day, my best friend and my only lover.
Thank you for everything.

"Will that be all?" the cashier drones, eyes widened and brows raised when she looks up at Soonyoung's face. He feels self-conscious, hand coming up to wipe at his eyes and cover his mouth.

"That will be all, thank you," he rushes out, paying in record time before hightailing it out of the store and into his apartment, doors slammed and shoes toed off haphazardly as he rips the plastic off the paperback novels.

Soonyoung finishes all three books in less than twenty-four hours, eyes burning and begging for sleep but old memories tug at his lids to remain wide open, emotions which he had kept compressed for two years growing and spiraling out of control, constricting his lungs which have been breathing in and out too easily.

***

For my best friend and only lover:

It has been a year and—a few months? Almost a half?
I don't know when this will get published, or when you will be reading it, but on this lovely day that is your birthday, I decided to splurge on abalone soup.
I nearly died.
Thank you for always leaving the fish out of my soup.
I love you for that. For many other things too, but also that.

For my best friend and only lover:

I've never told you, but I got a puppy.
She isn't a replacement for you, but I love her very much and wish you can see her.
I'm taking care of her well.
It's a pipe dream, but maybe one day, I can take care of you again, really do a decent job of it this time.
Thank you for the love and care then, for the dreams that keep me going now.
I love you very much.

***

Wonwoo's first full face of makeup was for his debut fansigning event at the main bookstore branch down the city square. The mask of cream and powder wasn't comfortable then and isn't any better now, especially with the fact that this is an interview slash photoshoot and Wonwoo has to deal with more colors on his face to add to the horror of staying put for eye makeup. Thank god he's always spared the mascara.

He hates himself slightly for still thinking of Soonyoung when the stylist, Seulgi, leans in close to darken the corners of his eyes, sooty eyeliner tickling his waterline. Wonwoo recalls watching Soonyoung getting his eyes done for a showcase once, and it was an Eldritch fairytale, how a teenaged boy bundled up in black leather and zippers had his eyeballs rolling far into the back of his head, philtrum stretched by the pull of his upper lip and his nose twitched incessantly. He exploded into laughter in an instant, arms weakly wrapping around his stomach and the stylist followed suit after the first line was drawn. Wonwoo snorts involuntarily.

"Hold still, Wonwoo," Seulgi chides him with a click of her tongue. Wonwoo bites down on his lip to keep from laughing.  

"Sorry," he apologizes. "Just remembered something funny."

"Care to share?"

"Not in particular."

"Then shut it," she shoots back. Common banter.

Seulgi's fingers are twice as fast as the rest of the world or something; what was a slim eyeliner in her hands now a tube of pink, the same shade staining her fingertips which are now dabbing at Wonwoo's lips. She never puts on too much, for which Wonwoo is eternally grateful.

The salon team Seulgi works for is located in the same building as Wonwoo's publisher, which means she had to deal with the nervous wreck that was Jeon Wonwoo during his first fansign and reapply his lip stain at least a hundred times over the afternoon because he couldn't stop vomiting the pink away. They have lunch together every other day. It's nice. Wonwoo doesn't have that many friends with whom he stays in touch with after graduation. Seulgi is refreshing in how mean she is to him from day one, threatening to stab his eye with a mascara wand when he wouldn't stop fidgeting. Compliments make her nice for five minutes, tops. But the arrangement works out because Wonwoo caught Seulgi crying after reading his book once, and she surprisingly laughs at his puns. That's something only Soonyoung ever did.

"If you're thinking of him again, quit it," Seulgi reprimands, but it's soft to Wonwoo's ears. Seulgi's read the dedications' page. She knows. She can't do much to help him, but it's not like Wonwoo's supposed to be spoon-fed by people like he was with Soonyoung anyway. Seulgi scolds and nags. Wonwoo's fine with it. On good days, he retorts.

But there are bad days, where Wonwoo would walk around aimlessly, comparing everything and anything to back then, to days of with Soonyoung, relating things to about Soonyoung, having a checklist his brain does subconsciously every time he meets new people because wow, Soonyoung used to do that. Soonyoung was like that. You're not like Soonyoung. You're kinda like Soonyoung. You're a lot like Soonyoung.

It doesn't hurt as much as it used to, and Wonwoo stops waking up alone by the toilet bowl, but he still misses Soonyoung. He thought that having to look at the same picture every time he opens his wallet would mean getting sick of said picture, and thus he'd want to get rid of it quicker. But Wonwoo just ends up staring a second longer, two or three if given the luxury, and the cashiers who ring up his orders must be tired of him holding up the line.

The only catch when it comes to hanging out with Seulgi is that Wonwoo's little checklist won't ever leave his mind, appreciating the fact that Seulgi is pretty much Soonyoung's polar opposite and Wonwoo really doesn't want to think of her that way, ever. She's slapped him once for it, on his insistence.

"We're done here," Seulgi announces, clicking the lip stain's cap back on with unnecessary flourish before she shoos Wonwoo away from her station. He flips her off, traipsing over to the interview spot of one table and one chair. A man who he assumes must be Mingyu from last week's phone call waves at him, and they run through the questions when Wonwoo hears a much too familiar voice shouting for the lights behind them.

He turns around, papers crumpled in his grip and Mingyu is telling him to pay the cameramen no mind, but Wonwoo can't not mind. He minds, very much. He minds only one cameraman in particular, ragged t-shirt and jeans ripped beyond belief, scar visible on his knee. It's Soonyoung, no doubt about it. Wonwoo can't mistake the nape of his neck for anything else in the world even with his brain flooding in panic and adrenaline. He averts his gaze before Soonyoung turns around and gets him paralyzed in his seat.

"Just a second," he excuses himself from the table, leaving Mingyu baffled. Wonwoo jogs to the makeup station and catches Seulgi's wrist right before she packs the last brush into her kit bag.

"Ow, Wonwoo," she cries, wrenching herself away from his grip. "The fuck?"

"Soonyoung is here," he pants, and that gets Seulgi's attention. "He's the cameraman, probably the main one and—fuck, fuck."

"Hey, calm down." Seulgi pushes Wonwoo down onto one of the chairs by his shoulders. "So he's gonna take pictures of you. Big deal."

Wonwoo spun his hands in thin air, gesturing wildly but not making much sense. "Yeah. But. If he took on this job he should know who he's taking pictures of, right? He knows that he'll be taking pictures of me. Why did he agree to that? Why take pictures of me?"

Seulgi furrows her brows at him, stern and one wrong sentence away from sewing his lips shut, he can tell. "Wonwoo," she warns, level. "It's just a job. If he can keep it professional, so can you. We can grab coffee after, does that sound alright? Just bear with it. The photoshoot shouldn't be longer than a couple of hours, I promise." Wonwoo nods wordlessly. Seulgi sighs. "You've been writing all those stories, the dedications. You said you were okay."

Wonwoo takes a few deep breaths, focusing on Seulgi's choker shimmering under the vanity lights. "I was. I was okay. But like, you know when you're expecting to knock into something? You know well how it'll feel and you're ready for it but. It still hurts a lot when you do knock into it. You're still gonna squeak like a baby and maybe tear up a little."

Seulgi lets go of him. "I've tried to keep you away from him for so long," she starts, a tad too loudly for Wonwoo's liking. "But you know what? I think you two should talk."

"What? No. Seulgi."

"Yes, Wonwoo. Yes." She chucks the last brush into her bag, zips it, and makes her way to the exit after giving Wonwoo one final pat on his shoulder. "I'll be back in thirty minutes or so, okay? You can do it. Sort it out. Two years is long enough."

Is it? "Alright." Wonwoo shakes out his jitters, cracking his knuckles before jumping out of his seat. He swings his legs forward one by one, knees popping under his jeans and Wonwoo focuses on the specks of dirt on his trainers. "Alright. Thanks, Seulgi."

She beams at him, and closes the door behind her.

***

Soonyoung finds Wonwoo smoking behind the building, leaning next to the backdoor. He notices the juxtaposition of Wonwoo's clean and made-up self a few feet away from the building's garbage disposal area, and twitches for the shutter button that isn't there. Shame.

"Hey," he greets, getting Wonwoo's attention on him. He hasn't changed much, Soonyoung thinks, aside from thinner cheeks and smaller wrists which he knows isn't from contouring.

"Hey," Wonwoo greets him back weakly. Soonyoung approaches him, trepidation in his footsteps because the photoshoot had lenses, had Wonwoo caked in five layers of foundation and there were people milling about around them. Soonyoung didn't have to worry about his brain shutting down from the mish-mash of then, now, what ifs and could haves.

There's wispy smoke trailing out of Wonwoo's parted lips, and it takes Soonyoung back to grimy rooftops, skinny jeans and edibles which were then a part of their daily anthem. He doesn't know what possessed him to agree to this shoot, but he hates it, hates thinking that he can keep his composure steady before Wonwoo. It's crumbling faster than the ashes of Wonwoo's cigarette, getting longer and only one second away from falling onto the concrete.

"You look like you need five burgers, pronto," Soonyoung blurts out. He wants to turn on his heel and run ten blocks down, away from Wonwoo. Adulthood sadly dictates that that isn't the proper way to handle old feelings and stale conflict.

"I can say the same for you," Wonwoo mumbles back, an easy smile playing on his lips and Soonyoung wants to cover them with his own. Bad thoughts. He keeps himself two feet away from Wonwoo. Two feet is nothing for Wonwoo's arm, extended out to Soonyoung with a pack in his hands. He takes one stick, lights it up wordlessly.

They smoke through a collective total of five cigarettes before Soonyoung finally speaks up. "I read them, by the way. Your books. All three of them."

Wonwoo shies away at that, stubbing out his cigarette prematurely after only four puffs before dropping his face into his hands, makeup be damned. Soonyoung finds it endearing, and he can make out the smile peeking out from underneath Wonwoo's palms. "I hope you're a bad reader who can't get anything out of the stories."

"Either that or you're a shitty writer, because they're horrible."

"Well, the shitty writer gets by on the horrible stories," Wonwoo retorts. "I've managed to give the landlord rent in advance."

Soonyoung doesn't resist the joke bubbling up his throat, smoke sputtering out of him as he stifles a chuckle. "Ballin', eh?"

Wonwoo joins in, like he always did, does, whatever. "Fuck yes."

The laughter dies down at the same speed of which Soonyoung's cigarette ashes fall down with. There are cars honking from the distance, and Soonyoung should be packing up his gear instead of loitering around here, in the alley that is behind his magazine team's building. Wonwoo is rubbing his face all over, makeup a mess, and his hands finally rest on his neck, fingers scratching at his nape like he always does when he's on edge.

"As a reader, what do you want me to do, writing-wise?" Wonwoo asks after some time. "Since my stories are so horrible in your eyes."

Soonyoung sneaks a glance at Wonwoo's fingers, slim and long with his nails thankfully neat this time. It was jagged from biting, back in the few months of them living together before breaking up. Soonyoung's eyes trace the outline of Wonwoo's palm, down to the protruding bone of his wrist before it smooths out, only to be cut by a khaki sleeve. Soonyoung wonders what would happen if he were to take Wonwoo's hand right now, if he would blank out and spill everything at last or clam up for good so long as he gets to touch Wonwoo one last time.

"Repetitive," Soonyoung forces out, deciding against holding Wonwoo's hands because he doesn't trust himself, not yet. "Dull. You've been recycling the same characters, problems, paraphrasing the first ending for the second and third." He wants to hold Wonwoo's hand, of course, who is Soonyoung kidding. "You don't even have three stories to speak of! They're all of the same—same heartache." He wants to cup Wonwoo's face and kiss him for hours. "Same damage. Same pathetic protagonist who ends up losing everything in the end because he's a fucking idiot."

But here he is, looming over Wonwoo with the heat of the cigarette's end threatening the skin of his fingers. Wonwoo doesn't look at him, staring at an empty spot by Soonyoung's feet and there's a thick veil of grey clouding over their heads. More cars zoom past the alley, and Wonwoo's shadow lengthens in the evening sun. He drops his head, fingers carding through styled hair and ruining what must've been fifteen minutes of hard work.

"I'm sorry," Wonwoo says. "I couldn't take care of you, couldn't even take care of myself. I couldn't handle it, I'm sorry. I was a coward. I didn't tell you anything upfront because I knew you would hate me." He looks up then, and Soonyoung's pulse snags at the two pools of black, ridiculously deep, terrifyingly earnest, and wholeheartedly sincere. He used to swim in them. "You can hate me, and that's fine, I'm just. I'm so sorry. I'm really so sorry. I've learned from it, okay? My rent is fine, I've kept Momo for half a year now, and she's only ever needed to go to the vet thrice!" Wonwoo rambles, and it's odd for Soonyoung because he recalls that Wonwoo did ramble, but not emotionally. Wonwoo never rambled emotionally. Soonyoung clenches his fingers into loose fists, the cigarette stubbed out seconds ago because Wonwoo has a sickeningly plastic grin on him and it's absolutely nauseating. "I'm doing fine. I'm doing fine without you and it's fine, even though I really am still in love with you. It's fine."

"If you're fine, then what am I?" Soonyoung snaps, irritated and he's hyperaware of his own breathing, of the tight feeling bunching up his chest. "It's not all about you. It's also me, Wonwoo, I know I clung too much. I know I forced it all on you in the end, I know I drove you away, I know. And it's kinda been ruining me for the past one hundred weekends or so remembering how awful I was to you, and you dare to tell me that you're fine?"

Wonwoo gets up then, hands hesitant when they go around Soonyoung's arms. "Soonyoung," he calls out. "Soon-ah."

"Don't call me that."

"Soon-ah."

Soonyoung regrets taking on the job. "Y'know, I still love you. I still miss you a lot. I guess I'm still in love with you too. Fuck." His voice cracks at the last few words, wobbling and Soonyoung can't believe how big of a crybaby he is. "It's good that you're fine. I've been fine too, actually. Today is just one of those days, the worse ones. I'm really sorry."

Wonwoo shakes his head vehemently, grip tightening on Soonyoung's arms. "Quick, tell me what you want me to do. With my stories."

Soonyoung stares at him quizzically, and Wonwoo grits his teeth in frustration. Soonyoung is just really, really torn between kissing him and socking Wonwoo square in his jaw.

"I just want you to give them an alternative," Soonyoung answers, licking his lips as his hands reach up to Wonwoo's arms, pushing them away from him. "They've had enough. I think they deserve at least one happy ending."

"Then I'll give you that," Wonwoo says, overzealous. "I'll give you the happy ending you want, okay?"

Wonwoo roughly pulls Soonyoung back in, overstepping the distance they had set between each other and he makes sure they're chest-to-chest, his chin hooked on Soonyoung's shoulder like that of a fisher's bait, unrelenting and impossible to remove. Soonyoung feels fingers slotting between his, intertwining and they're laced together, Wonwoo's fingers on his knuckles and his own digits feeling the tiny bumps of Wonwoo's veins. When Wonwoo tightens his hold on Soonyoung, it knocks the breath out of Soonyoung's lungs in a low sob.

"Come by my place later?" Wonwoo pleads. "I want to show you Momo, and you can show me my unedited pictures from today. You can show me whatever you have in your camera. I can show you my drafts, there are some really funny ones I wrote while sleep-deprived." Soonyoung can tell Wonwoo is crying too, his shoulder damp and warm and he can't believe he misses the feeling of snot soaking into his shirt.

"You replaced me with a dog," he spits, grinning into Wonwoo's ear because he misses that too, misses tickling it with horribly-whispered jokes before kissing it first thing in the morning. "You better have really nice food or something."

"Cool," Wonwoo exhales sharply before chuckling in relief, sounding like the lamest human being to ever roam into Soonyoung's life. He pulls away slightly to press a kiss on Soonyoung's cheek, warm and reeking of smoke but Soonyoung feels wholly alive for the first time in a long while.

He wants Wonwoo to stay lost in him forever. Soonyoung grabs Wonwoo by the sides of his face and takes steps back to cage himself between the wall and Wonwoo. They can't run anywhere anymore.

"Cut the crap," he wants to say, but he cuts his own words instead, lips meeting Wonwoo's like he wanted to do minutes ago, hours, days, months, two years ago.

In a world that is Wonwoo's novel, Soonyoung would reject the job offer and tell Mingyu to fuck off. In a world that is Wonwoo's novel, Soonyoung wouldn't dare loiter behind the building after the shoot, bumming off Wonwoo's cigarettes. In a world that is Wonwoo's novel, Soonyoung would tamp down his own desires and say thanks for the free cigs, briskly walk back into his whirlwind of work, work, work.

But this is the alternate ending. Soonyoung has his hands in Wonwoo's gel-laden hair, and Wonwoo's toying at the hem of his shirt. They're going to go back to Wonwoo's place, and Soonyoung can finally steal Wonwoo's puppy away for himself. They can talk about work without fearing a shouting match to exhaust them for the rest of the evening and this time, Wonwoo will be ordering the food instead of Soonyoung.

"For my best friend and only lover?" Soonyoung teases. "Cheese."

Wonwoo shoves him away. "Shut it, Soonyoung."

"But you love me."

"I do love you."

In this alternate ending, which for once is reality, they're going to be okay.

***

For my best friend and only lover:

Thank you for returning to me.
I love you. You are my muse.